Reflections from the Elf
by Tulip Proudfoot
Summary: A collection of various writings by Legolas on different topics; serious philosophy. Mostly G rated.
1. Introduction

Reflections from the Elf  
  
Being a collection of anecdotes concerning members of the Fellowship of the Ring.  
Compiled by Legolas Greenleaf of the Northern Mirkwood Forest Kingdom  
  
Tales grow in the telling, to paraphrase a dear friend. And so too have these recollections. Elves are generally not known as great writers, being more concerned with preserving their own personal memories rather than in committing them to the impermanence of paper and ink. However, I find myself drawn to leaving a written record of my own point of view surrounding the extraordinary happenings at the end of the Third Age and the beginning of the Fourth.  
  
My friends, Gimli of the Glittering Caves, formerly of the dwarvish kingdom of the Blue Mountains, and Frodo Baggins of the Shire in the land of the Halflings, have made compelling arguments for putting my memories into writing. Though it is not in my nature to sit for long hours at a writing desk - for I much prefer to wander the forests and streams under the everlasting stars - I bow to Gimli and Frodo's wisdom. Otherwise, the tales would not be told in Middle Earth, and those who come after me would never know them.  
  
I am Legolas Greenleaf, one of the members of the Fellowship of the Ring formed by my Lord Elrond Half-Elven at the great Council of Elrond in Imladris at the end of the Third Age. I am a Silvan Elf of the Kingdom of Northern Mirkwood. My father, Thranduil, was Lord of this kingdom, though he and most of my kin have already departed Middle Earth for the Blessed Realm. I am the last Elf remaining on Middle Earth from this once-mighty kingdom. When I finish penning this collection, I shall transport it to Minas Tirith to be left in the keeping of the King. Gimli and I shall then travel to the Sea and will depart.  
  
It has been many years, as mortals count them, since the Ringbearers  
departed from the Grey Havens. And the time is drawing nigh when I too shall take the ship into the West. For the Sea has staked its claim upon  
my heart, and I cannot gainsay for much longer the desire in my soul to sail upon its mighty waters. So I am setting aside for awhile my restless wanderings across the wide miles of Middle Earth, taking up residence again in the silent, dusty halls of my father's palaces on the Eastern edge of  
Mirkwood, and will set to ink my musings before I quit this place for  
another which is my destiny.  
  
I have been to the great royal library in Minas Tirith, and have read the mighty works by Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Bilbo's book was originally intertwined with Frodo's, but the King has had them separated into two volumes. The elder is titled "There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale" by Bilbo Baggins. The second, and much larger work, is titled "The Lord of the Rings" and is primarily by Frodo Baggins, though others have added to it through the years.  
  
My writings are not intended to replace those histories, but rather, to give side commentary to the events which happened. I have been noting down these recollections for quite a few years, as time permitted. They are not in any particular order, but rather, are a simple retelling of what happened as I reflect upon them. And since my audience will most likely be mortals, a word of warning is required. Elves do not perceive time in the same fashion as mortals. Consequently, the tense of my writings may read as somewhat jumbled. Forgive me, but I will not attempt to edit my thoughts into any timeline. Nor should you be surprised that events which to you happened in some long-dim past, are recounted by myself as in the present. I hope this will not distract too much from the heart of the matter. 


	2. The Ringbearer and His Wound

Chapter 2: The Ringbearer and his Wound  
  
I accidentally ran across Frodo one day sitting quietly in a garden in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. It was after the crowning of the King. The Ringbearer was sitting crossed-legged on a stone bench up against a wall covered in old ivy. He was resting in a pool of sunlight, a blanket wrapped about his shoulders and chin raised toward the sun. I didn't wish to disturb Frodo, who had obviously retreated to this little-used corner of an old, secluded and neglected garden. But Frodo bade me stay for awhile and I acquiesced.  
  
"We have not had many chances to talk directly to each other in all this time," he said. "What brings you to this garden today?"  
  
"I am exploring the city," I replied. "And, taking a short break from being with Gimli, truth be known."  
  
Frodo chuckled and shifted the overlarge woolen cloak about his shoulders. "Too much talk of stonework and streets and rebuilding?"  
  
"Something like that," I smiled. "I love Gimli dearly, but every now and then I must get out and walk where green things grow. Refresh myself in wood and water. I enjoy feeling the city breathe."  
  
"The city breathe?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Yes. When we first entered Minas Tirith after the great battle of Pellanor Fields, it could barely whisper a greeting. The trees and earth and, yes, even stone of the city were choking on decay and neglect. It spoke to me of past glories, yet offered only sighs of woe and despair.  
  
"But now that the Enemy has been defeated and the King has returned, the city has changed," I continued. "It trembles in anticipation of each new day. The trees and little gardens smile now. The very rock rejoices with hope and renewal. Mortals can see it in the planting of the new white tree of the King. But I enjoy finding the still, small places where the city's heartbeat can be heard best."  
  
Frodo smiled and turned his face to the sun, shutting his eyes and settling back into the embrace of the ivy running up the wall.  
  
"And what brings you to this garden?" I asked.  
  
"I also need time to be alone," Frodo quietly answered without opening his eyes. "To recover, or at least, to come to terms with what has happened."  
  
We sat in silence for awhile. I finally turned to the small hobbit. The sun had moved a little so that it was not directly in his eyes. Yet a shadow crossed the hobbit's countenance and he shifted slightly, pulling the blanket up a bit.  
  
"Forgive my rudeness," I said, "but I see you are yet in pain. I confess ignorance concerning the healing ways of mortals, but I am confused. Samwise and Peregrin and Meriodoc have recovered from their wounds and tribulations. In fact, it seems to me that hobbits heal quicker than Men. And you yourself appear to be well when you are with them. But now I see a shadow upon your heart. What then continues to trouble you?"  
  
Frodo swallowed and looked aside. A blush of embarrassment started to his otherwise pale cheeks.  
  
"Forgive me," I said, rising from my seat in alarm and bowing deeply. "I did not mean to hurt you further. That was grossly inconsiderate of me. I will leave you to your rest."  
  
"No, no," Frodo reached out and caught me by the sleeve before I could turn. "Please stay awhile. It is nothing. I was not prepared to handle such a question right then. Please, Legolas. Please sit back down and stay with me. Please stay."  
  
I was terribly embarrassed at my lack of sensitivity to his distress, but the pleading in his voice forced me to resume my seat beside him. Frodo turned to face me.  
  
"You see," Frodo began, "I do not talk about it with Sam or the others, but . well . the wound I received on Amon Sul has begun to trouble me again."  
  
"The Morgul-blade wound?" I knew of it, of course. Everyone at the Council of Elrond knew of the Nazgul attack.  
  
Frodo nodded.  
  
"I thought Lord Elrond healed you of that wounding back in Imladris prior to our journey."  
  
"Well, yes," Frodo said, "but he used his Ring of Power."  
  
"I am afraid I don't understand," I said. "I do not know much about the Elvish Rings of Power or how that factors into your healing."  
  
Frodo shifted so that his legs dangled over the edge of the bench. "I knew nothing about them until Gandalf explained the whole history of the Rings to me one night. I knew there were three Elvish Rings of Power, seven for the Dwarves, and nine for Men, but Gandalf did not divulge to me who had the Rings or if they were ever used."  
  
He smiled a tight smile. "I found out the hard way, didn't I?" He laughed a tight little sound devoid of all mirth. "Lord Elrond has one of the Rings. The Lady Galadriel, another. And Gandalf the third, though that one was given to him by Lord Cirdan the Shipwright."  
  
Frodo started to rub the stump of the missing ring finger from his right hand. "When I woke up in Rivendell after the attack, Gandalf told me that Lord Elrond healed me of the wound. It bothered me quite a bit for the first month, but gradually healed up until I did not notice it much during the quest."  
  
A wry, dark grin appeared on his lips. "With a few, notable exceptions."  
  
I settled back into myself, letting the Ringbearer speak at his own pace. I had never heard him talk so freely about any of his wounds. He seemed to need to think aloud through this problem. So I let him use me as a sounding board to clarify his own tangled thoughts.  
  
"A few times during our journey to the Mountain, Sam and I were close to the Nazgul," he continued. "At those times of vulnerability I could feel their presence. I believe they were still wearing their own rings of power. Sometimes it was as if the Witch King were stabbing me all over again. Terrible pain. Terrible. If Sam had not been there with me during those times, I do not believe I would have survived."  
  
He was now rubbing his left arm; shaking his head. "I don't know, Legolas." he said. "I can not be sure, but somehow they are all tied together. The One Ring. The Rings worn by the Nazgul. The Morgul-blade. The Elvish Ring Lord Elrond used to heal me. Somehow they are connected. And when the One Ring was destroyed, I thought I would be forever rid of the pain from the wound."  
  
He stopped and looked at me. His blue eyes clouded over and he sighed. "But it seems the opposite is true."  
  
"Have you asked Lord Elrond about this?" I inquired.  
  
"Perhaps I shall," he replied, getting up from the bench and gathering the blanket into his arms. "Thank you for listening. Please though, please don't mention this to anyone else. Particularly not to Sam. He worries about me enough as it is."  
  
"As you wish, Frodo," I replied as I also stood.  
  
"See you tonight at the banquet," he said as he left the garden and headed up the stone street towards the houses where the hobbits and Gandalf were staying.  
  
I did see him later that evening at the banquet. He presented himself in the same manner as his kinfolk and servant, save for a subtle reluctance to exert himself physically as much as they. He laughed when it was appropriate. Smiled when it was required. Talked when spoken to. But I could see the shadows lurking behind his carefully-constructed countenance. And I could sense that he knew I knew. 


	3. Anger and the Eventual Passing of the Dw...

Chapter 3: Anger and the Eventual Passing of Dwarves and Elves  
  
I have heard it said that Elves lack emotions, or that we only have a few emotions. Of course, this was not said to my face, but I have overheard it when walking the corridors at night. I wish to respond to that misconception.  
  
We experience the same emotions as the rest of the free peoples, though it may not appear so to non-Elves. We are simply slow and careful about sharing our emotions. It takes an Elf some time to consider an emotion. And then it requires a conscious effort to express it to another, if the other needs to know.  
  
For instance, Elves are not quick to sudden outbursts of anger such as Dwarves and Men. Yet Elves know anger. Anger which is deeper and blacker than that experienced by Dwarves or Men.  
  
Anger runs deep and strong in those who are immortal. We cannot "forgive and forget" like Men, for we can never truly forget. The past is ever present, and wrongs are constantly relived. Only through self-discipline and the careful control of all emotions can the race of the Elves interact with mortals without frightening, disgusting, or confusing them. That is one reason why Elves deign to show their emotions too readily or too much.  
  
The major families of the race of Elves were sundered a long, long time ago because of anger. The sons of Feanor and their followers separated themselves from those who rejected the absolute loyalties demanded by Feanor. The anger of one house against another lasted for more than the first two ages of Middle Earth and has been passed from generation to generation. This anger even effected the Valar, and only now are some Eldar allowed to return to Valinor. Emotions can be the downfall of whole races of peoples.  
  
Each race expresses emotions uniquely fitting their race's place in the design of Iluvitar. For example: Dwarves are quick to anger. Distrustful of the stranger. Greedy concerning material wealth. And they are prideful to the point of obsession.  
  
Yet Dwarves are also quick to forgiveness. They delight in laughter from the heart. Music is a passion. They are lovers of great works of art and beauty. And they are loyal, strong and brave to the point of death.  
  
My great friend, Gimli of the Fellowship, has introduced me to his family and friends from the Blue Mountains. I have learned more truth about the Dwarves from my short few years of knowing and working with them, than all the ages of mistrust and suspicion handed down to me from my father. And though I am probably the single person of my race most in sympathy with Dwarvish nature, I believe our races are forever destined to remain essentially sundered.  
  
For the Dwarves are an insular people, while the Elves are naturally inclined to explore and teach. Yet in one fundamental way our two races are very much alike: We are leaving the world of Middle Earth to Mankind.  
  
The Elves do so by departing over the Sundering Sea to our home in the Blessed Realm. We cannot stop this migration. It is a part of every Elf left in Middle Earth - the longing for the Sea and for Valinor.  
  
The Dwarves are leaving Middle Earth in their own way. They are already retreating deeper and deeper into their mountain homes. Even in the few short years the Dwarves have occupied the Glittering Caves, they have already left the rooms closest to the sunlight, and are headed further underground. A day will come when Elves and Dwarves are no longer to be found walking the wide paths under star and sun.  
  
In those days, Mankind will forget that our races once freely mingled with theirs - side by side as co-equal children of Iluvitar. Elves and Dwarves will be spoken of as beings from a distant time and place; eventually becoming no more real than rumor and myth. As the Ents have become.  
  
Yet if these writings and the writings of the hobbits are carried forward, perhaps Mankind will believe again in his kinship with other free peoples, and will not persist in thinking that he himself is unique in all creation. 


	4. I Admit to Fear

Chapter 4: I Admit to Fear  
  
There have been two times in my life when I have known fear. Not the abstract childhood fear of things unknown lying await at night. Nor the normal life-saving rational fears such as the fear of falling or of drowning. I speak of real terrors which freeze the mind, eat the spirit, and immobilize the body.  
  
The second time was when the Fellowship ran from the Balrog of Moria. That fear was well-known and immediate. I will tell that tale at a later date.  
  
But the first time Fear came upon me, it did so with subtlety and treachery unknown in all my years. Fear appeared during the Council of Elrond in Rivendell. It was at the moment the One Ring was presented to the Council, and we beheld its beauty and its power. At first it looked to me a simple, plain gold band. Lovely and elegant in simplicity of design. Wonderfully rich and warm; bathed in autumnal sunlight. A simple thing. A beautiful thing.  
  
And the longer I gazed upon it, the more I desired to touch it. Feel its weight in the palm of my hand. Finger its smoothness and experience its sweet, warm breath. For it seemed to me that it had life of its own. It breathed and sighed and began to vibrate in subtle rhythm with the shafts of light.  
  
The more I looked upon its beauty, the less aware I was of my surroundings. Forgotten were the other members of the Council. I could see them with my peripheral vision, but they were unimportant at that moment. Somebody was speaking, but that too was unimportant. I only had senses for the Ring.  
  
It was singing. Singing to me. Singing solely for me. A beautiful, lovely song with my name embedded in the chant. Songs of forest, field and stream. Of the secret lives of moss and rock and bird. The mating madness of kine and stag. The keen senses of hawk and eagle and wolf. Warg and spider and worm. Knowledge of the most intimate type. Songs of knife and bow; arrow and staff; sword and dart. Of running without tiring. Seeing with perfect vision penetrating even wood, stone and fire. To BE the arrow as it flew through the air; feel the heavy thrill of piercing hide and flesh; drink the hot metallic nectar of pumping blood as it shot down my shaft, dripping life from my fletching.  
  
If I could but reach IT, I could claim that song for my own! I would be Lord of the Hunt. Master of Forest and Mountain. Slayer and Renewer.  
  
I came to myself with a start.  
  
Truly, this . this THING before us WAS evil.  
  
And I was afraid.  
  
I must admit a certain amount of shame when I am in Frodo's presence. Shame at being humbled by his willingness to conquer this fear and sacrifice everything for the good of all. For I hesitated when the call was announced to destroy the Ring in Mount Doom. All of us at the Council of Elrond hesitated, save the hobbits. And I was shamed before my elders and peers. For I could not bring myself to volunteer for such a task. Yet the hobbits did. Even Master Bilbo Baggins, Frodo's elderly uncle who had kept the Ring in quiet keeping for well over sixty years; even he did not hesitate when the question was posed. "Who then will take IT to Mount Doom?"  
  
Gandalf tells me I should feel no shame at my fear. Mithrandir himself was unable to touch the Ring lest he fall to its temptation. Lord Elrond would not handle it. Nor would the Lady of the Golden Wood. When it was presented to us at the Council, I gazed upon it and feared what it could do to me.  
  
I feared it. Legolas, renowned hunter and tracker. Master of bow, blade and shield. Captain of my father's royal guard. Destroyer of wargs, goblins and the giant spiders of Mirkwood. Feared a simple band of gold.  
  
For the most part I remained quiet at the Council. Ashamed that I was unable to control my fear and do the task which should have been done by one of my race. For were the Elves not responsible for allowing Sauron to forge the Rings of Power?  
  
But it was not my task to un-make that mistake. That role was reserved for a mortal. Someone small and weak. One whose unfailing steadfastness and resolve humbled even the Wise. 


	5. Thoughts on Death

Chapter 5: Thoughts on Death  
  
I have seen many things in my time on Middle Earth. Great deeds of valor performed by both mortals and immortals. Acts of heroism and self- sacrifice great and small performed by people of all ages and races. And acts of immense cruelty and malice as well. These are also not limited to any one race.  
  
I have witnessed death in many different forms. I have also killed with my own hands. After all, I am a hunter and a soldier. Violence is my trade. I have probably seen more death than most beings of my age.  
  
It is a strange and variable thing – to take the life of another. Sometimes it comes with little forethought, as when you are in battle and it is a clear choice to either take your enemy's life, or he will take yours. Or when you take another's life in order to save someone you love. These types of death hold little horror for me, since they hold little thought. I have killed many goblins, orcs and evil Men in this fashion, and it does not bother me.  
  
Yet there are some deaths which bother me greatly. To die at a very young age before one has a chance to live – that is a death which bothers me. I do not know why Iluvitar allows this type of death. But I also confess I do not know Iluvitar's song in its fullness. Perhaps this type of death is necessary for something else to occur. Or to teach those who remain some sort of lesson. Or perhaps the one who dies is taken to a place far better than what is here. I do not know. But it always disturbs me to learn of the death of one who has not yet fully lived.  
  
Suicide is also a type of death which sometimes bothers me. Not all suicides, but some. It is not an option for immortals. Elves are not given the Gift of Death. We cannot escape this world through any form of death; even suicide. Therefore, the concept of suicide is very difficult for us.  
  
Some people have called suicide an act of rebellion against Iluvitar. I understand this point of view. When a mortal falls under the spell of the Enemy, and accepts despair instead of hope, suicide must seem logical. For despair is giving up on hope. I witnessed the despair of King Theoden of Rohan when he was under the spell of Saruman and Wormtongue. Yet despair can be overcome. Mithrandir cast out the demons and healed Theoden. The King went on to reclaim his kingship, and showed great courage, hope and valor before his people and the people of Gondor. To despair is one thing. To give into it and to take your life because of it – well, that robs Iluvitar of effecting a healing and a turning from despair to joy. And joy is the primary chorus of Iluvitar's song of creation.  
  
Death from illness is also strange to me. Elves do not suffer illnesses such as mortals. It is near-incomprehensible to me as to the cause for illnesses, unless it is through a wound in battle or by accident. Yet mortals suffer many, many illnesses, and they frequently die from them. It is difficult for me to watch a mortal die in agony. I wish to relieve their suffering. In earlier times I might have been tempted to help them die quicker. After all, we hunters do not allow the deer to suffer if we have wounded it. We track it and kill it as swiftly as possible. I sometimes thought of mortals in a similar fashion. But after meeting the Ringbearer at Rivendell, I have changed my mind about that.  
  
I was in Rivendell on an errand from my father when Aragorn, Glorfindel and the four hobbits arrived. Frodo had suffered a stab wound from a Nazgul, and was expected to die. In fact, Lord Elrond was surprised to find the Ringbearer alive at all. I was not allowed to visit the bedside of the wounded hobbit, but Glorfindel recounted the harrowing tale of what had occurred. For three days I could hear the shrieks coming from Frodo's bedroom whenever he briefly regained consciousness. It was horrible. If it had been me instead of Lord Elrond who was tending him, I might have given in to the seemingly inevitable and have allowed Frodo to die. Or helped him. Now I know better. Life and death is not given into my hands. That decision is only for Iluvitar to make.  
  
Even so, it seems so unnecessary to me that a person should suffer as if they were in torture before they die. I saw many Men in the Minas Tirith Houses of Healing who were in various stages of death. Some had resigned themselves to it, and had found some sort of peace. Some were fighting it as if they were fighting a bear. They would thrash and moan, kick and scream. Some could not comprehend that they were actually dying until it was too late. These seemed very surprised, even as they exhaled their final breath.  
  
Yet, if it were left up to me, I would forbid this agony of death. I can find no use for it. The Lady Eowyn and I disagree on this point. She became a Healer in Minas Tirith before moving to Ithillen with Prince Faramir. The Lady Eowyn tells me she learned quite a lot from working with the dying in Minas Tirith. She says she learned compassion, patience, forbearance and truthfulness there. I think she already had those qualities in her before she worked with the Healers. We have agreed to disagree on this topic. 


	6. The Passing of the WoodElves

Chapter 6: The Passing of the Wood-Elves  
  
The age of the Quendi (all kindred's of Elves; such we call ourselves) has passed. The age of Man has begun. And all Elfkind know in their hearts that we shall dwindle and fade into shadow and legend should we remain in the World. To hide from mortal eyes, flitting from shade to shadow to illusion, is a poor life indeed. Renewed is the call to go into the West, and only a fool would not heed this final summoning of the Valar.  
  
Already the last great migration has begun. I see it as I watch my people leave beautiful Greenwood the Great, for such was Mirkwood called before the Enemy arrived. My people are taking the long, slow journey to the grey ships moored in Lord Cirdan's crumbling harbor in the North. Some few of us have relocated South to Ithilin for awhile to bless the woods there. But eventually we will also seek harbor to build the ships for our true home. Then we shall pass into tales.  
  
We are already loosing our connection to this place. We travel single file through the dappled forests, cool glades and golden meadows, clinging to twilight and starlight and misty days. Mortals usually cannot see us now unless they are unusually perceptive. We have lost our desire for Middle Earth, and the land is forgetting us as well. Only when Elbereth's blessed lights illumine our paths and Manwe's soft airs stir our voices can mortals perceive my brothers and sisters as we pass through their lands.  
  
I accompany many of my kin as we travel to the Great Sea. Only when we pass near to the Shire do I sometimes feel drawn back into this Age long enough to visit with my friends there. Master Samwise Gamgee unfailingly comes to the place he calls the Woody End each autumn, whether we pass that way or not. He comes to salute the travelers on our journeys. His loyalty and steadfastness is unique, and he has earned the titled "Elf-friend" on his own.  
  
Sometimes he brings a daughter or a son with him. His younger children are afraid of us and cling to the protection of his sturdy hobbit legs. Save for his eldest. She is as clear-eyed as he, and as unafraid. But such is the sundering of the Children of Iluvitar. A great evil engineered by Morgoth the Deceiver, and only now being laid to rest by the passing of the elves.  
  
I believe Elanor Gardener will be the last mortal in Middle Earth to see the elves. Someday I too shall take a tall grey ship and pass beyond the Seas. I can no more deny my longing for the music of Osse than any of my brethren. But I shall not go alone. And I hope to visit with the Ringbearer once again. 


	7. On Music

Chapter 7: Of Music

Sometimes words alone cannot fully express thoughts and emotions. Sometimes a truer expression is found in music, which transcends mere words and taps deep into the Secret Fire which is within each of us. For music is the language of Iluvitar, and of creation. Music is also the language of destruction and renewal, which is also part of Iluvitar's eternal plan as sung by the Valar. Each race knows this, as each race has found its own expression in music.

I am not particularly skilled in music, but my friend, Gimli of the Dwarves, is an accomplished musician. His harping is wonderful. Some might laugh at the thought of a dwarf of such fighting renown making sweet music upon golden harpstrings. Yet such is the case. Dwarves are quite musical, in their own way.

I have learned that music can express the inmost thoughts of the player, even when words are not present. Only the music of Durin's Folk can thrill me to their thoughts: the love of gold and jewels; secret places and treasures buried in the deep; of fine craftsmanship and cunning minds; of the strength and hardness of stone; of love of family and kin kept secret from the world above.

In my father's courts were musicians of such skill as could persuade the birds of the forest and meadow to start from their nests and gather round in silent astonishment. Crystalline melodies evoking the stellar voice of Varda herself, upon the creation of the stars. Luminous strands of glowing verdant harmonies detailing the love of Yavanna for that which flowers and grows. Combinations upon the lute and flute and viols which make one's heart sing and soar upon eagle's wings above the jagged blue ice-teeth of Kortirion. Dusky lays for voices in unison and polyphony telling twilight tales of Luthien and how her love-music conquered even Morgoth upon his iron throne.

I have heard the battle calls of men upon the broad planes of Pellenor. The race of Men favor trumpet and horn, kettle drums and braying krumhorns, during the thick of battle. Music stirs their hearts to rejoice in blood-lust. Yet I have also heard the grandest of epic poetry and most tender love-lays sung in the courts of the King. Celebrated with the most glorious mixed-voice choruses from Dol Amroth and the finest strings and winds from Ithilien. Mankind lives in the now, and this is reflected in their music. What so is new-composed; what so is fresh and unknown to the ancients; this is what excites the race of men. They constantly make new music as they work, play, relax and make war.

Even hobbits share the universal joy of music. Strange, primitive and unrefined to elfin ears, yet intrinsically and totally appropriate for that diminutive race. Strong in rhythm and good for dancing, drinking and laughing – activities to which halflings naturally excel. Drum and pipe, bagpipe and dumbac, recorder and fiddle. Simple rhyming songs of slight and sometimes silly matters, bringing delight and comfort to a people who celebrate the common-place and well-remembered. Master Bilbo Baggins, Master Samwise Gamgee, and even the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins, all composed songs which are well-known among their own people, and sometimes in the courts of the Wise. For great truths are often evident in the most simple of melodies.

Some will claim they have no talent for music. I think otherwise. There are always ways one can participate in the creation of music. For some is given the gift of lovely voice. To others, the ability to play instruments most wonderfully. To others, dance and movement; clapping and stomping. And to others is given the gift of listening and enjoying. All are part of the music of Middle Earth. For music is best understood when there are both performers and listeners. Each bring their own gifts to the music.

So let each of us sing and play the music of Middle Earth, to the best of our abilities.


End file.
